


The Vampire and the Asshole

by zombiephilosophers



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angry Lambert (The Witcher), Creature Fic, F/M, Gen, Lambert Needs a Hug (The Witcher), Lambert Swears (The Witcher), Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Past Abuse, Snark, Soft Lambert (The Witcher), Vampires, but the abuser's dead, everyone is a sarcastic bitch and I love them, he swears so much, lambert swears instead of feeling his feels, sometimes a family is a vampire mum and her adopted village, very cherry picked vampire lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26274010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiephilosophers/pseuds/zombiephilosophers
Summary: The vampire stood, neck outstretched, throat bobbing against the metal blade leaving a spreading patch of red raw-looking skin where the silver had brushed her neck. “Please, I-,” But before Lambert could fire back a scathing retort, the stable boy, armed with a muck-covered rake rushed at him. What the fuck? Humans run away from the vampires, not towards them. But before Lambert could kick out the idiot boy’s knee caps, and yell at him for picking a weapon he could barely lift, the vampire whipped out an arm and practically clotheslined the kid, forcing him behind her. What. The. Fuck. Lambert flicked his eyes heavenward. Nothing on this Melitele-be-damned contract was going normally. “Jack,” the vampire snarled, not taking her eyes off Lambert. “Get into the tavern.” The boy started vehemently protesting, shouting, but the vampire would not be moved. “Get. inside.” She ground out, shifting her weight in order to block the kid better. The kid gave her a worried panicked look and grabbed her wrist. She shook him off. Her voice was soft but serious, "Just go inside Jack."It was supposed to be an easy contract. Track drown a drunk bastard as he fucked his way through Lyria. Then a fucking Vampire had shown up.
Kudos: 20





	The Vampire and the Asshole

The Vampire and the Asshole

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, children skipped through the streets yelping with coltish delight, two - not one - but two (!!) people had smiled at him, and he’d been given a cheerful discount at the herbalist’s shop for bulk buying. Lambert didn’t trust it. In the town’s defence, Lambert trusted nothing and no one - even with his own brothers he trusted that they would help him for sibling’s sake, not necessarily for his own, and even then he had a rigorously maintained book of paranoia, tracking and predicting which one of the two bastards was most likely to kill him. Even in the winter at Kaer Morhen, he still half expected to wake up with a knife in him one of these days - not necessarily a fatal stabbing, but a knife nonetheless. He surveyed the suspiciously cheerful happenings with a mistrustful glare, refusing to crack a smile at even the most high-spirited of children as they stumbled past him shrieking and gamboling in the streets. There was something deeply wrong. He was sure of it.

These people lived in the ass-end of Lyria. It was no-man’s land, filled to the brim with beasts and bandits. They should be starving, threatened, scared and rabbit-eyed like all the other shit-hole farming towns he’d rode through. Instead, this looked like some imaginary pastoral wonderland that would decorate a spoiled lord’s entrance hall, depicting a romantic view of the horrific hardships often faced by the poor - in an effort to ease the faint pangs of an underdeveloped conscience, living in luxury whilst his people starved. They were happy. Too happy. And he didn’t like it. 

What had brought him to the small town originally, was a contract of a dubious nature. A human smelling of lust and anger and filth had contracted him to find his brother Elric, who’d planned to head to Sodden, and would have passed through Larasgate Village - a small farming town in the middle of some of the most profitable farmland in the country. Venger was a pig, and from Lambert’s investigation, the brother seemed worse - the fucker had left a string of bruised women in every town he’d passed through, until his trail of brutism mysteriously vanished here. In this fucking dollhouse fairytale town. Lambert didn’t give a shit about Elric, the bastard could rot for all he cared, and he’d probably run afoul of the wrong man or woman. But. There was the off chance that something had got him, and that whatever it was, could strike again. Lambert sighed. If he kept up this bullshit do-goodery nonsense he might as well adopt a permanently grumpy face, start sleeping with the worst possible people available, and call himself Geralt. 

Another pair of overly cheerful peasant children ran past giggling. This was unendurable, irritatingly loud, and it was messing up his senses. He was _trying_ to track Elric’s movements, and instead all he could smell was happiness and joy and raspberry jam and other nauseating things.

His tracking had brought him to the tavern. Eyeing the cheerful colours of the banner with disdain, Lambert flung the door open with a bang and stormed inside. It was remarkable how utterly unaffected the dour man was by the general aura of merriment. The cheerful bubbling sound of the tavern dipped noticeably, the landlady’s warm smile suddenly became just a little too forced, and one of the serving girls knocked a wooden flask off the table as she flinched back. Great. As much as Lambert had found the happiness grating, wasn’t it just a slap in the face that even the friendliest town he’d ever been to treated him like a wild animal turned loose on them. Accustomed to it, Lambert pushed away the annoyance, and ignored the faint traces of hurt and disappointment that plagued him even after decades of similar treatment. He turned his attention to the girl, scrambling to pick up the tankard. Sniffing, he noted glumly that the scent of fear was suddenly palpable, particularly emanating from the clumsy barmaid. As she turned back to the customers with slightly shaking hands, Lambert caught sight of a lightly-purpling yellow bruise stretching across her cheekbone. Grimly, Lambert confirmed that Elric had indeed gotten this far. Which meant, for whatever reason, he hadn’t left Larasgate.

Clearing his throat, and trying on his least threatening scowl, he addressed the landlady. “I’m looking for a man. Bit of a beast - stopped by here from the looks of things,” he nodded at the barmaid, “goes by the name of Elric.” He was short, blunt and to the point. 

The woman swallowed, glanced at her barmaid again, and looked down at a mug she was cleaning. “Didn’t see ‘im.” The forced nonchalance in her voice did nothing to cover the sound of her thundering heart. _Lie_. 

Right, so they weren’t going to offer information freely. “I know he came here.” Lambert stated, plainly. “He had dark hair, cut in the Temerian style, he-”

“We,” the landlady ground out, almost biting at the words, “saw nothing. Heard nothing. And know _nothing_.” Every word that came out of her mouth was a lie. Lambert also noticed how she unconsciously positioned herself between Lambert and the serving maid, blocking her from view. 

So they knew something, probably how the bastard had died, and it was probably murder. Likely revenge for whatever happened to the barmaid. Fuck. This was not how Lambert wanted this contract to go, he needed the fucking coin, and from the looks of things there was no monster to hunt and likely no remains to be found. He eyed the girl again, at least three of the men in here carried her features, older brothers or cousins perhaps, all glancing at her surreptitiously, and glaring at him more obviously. There was no way he’d manage to speak to her alone, guarded as she was.

“We’ve got no business for you here, witcher,” the woman hissed. Lambert nodded curtly to the landlady, eyed the bruised barmaid once more, and stomped out to the stables. All in all, this was a fucking loss, nearly two weeks of tracking wasted, and he’d likely be out of pocket. He would only be paid if he found Elric, alive or otherwise. Slumping against the stable wall, he half heartedly started brushing his newest horse. It was a Zerrikanian Racer - a gorgeous mare, although unfortunately named Pierogi - that he’d accepted instead of payment a few contracts back. He’d make sure to mention that to Vesemir this winter. The old bastard hated it when they accepted anything other than coin for a contract. 

Allowing himself the luxury of relaxing for a moment, going through the repetitive motions of horse brushing, Lambert closed his eyes and extended his senses. It wasn’t a full meditation, just a heightened present-ness, letting the sounds and smells of the town wash over him. It was an inexorable assault on the senses, that simultaneously allowed him to quiet his racing mind. Or at least, it usually did. Right now though rather than being relaxing, all he could focus on was the heavy, coppery scent of blood that was permeating the stables. Lambert swore long and furiously. He recognised the accompanying scent - It was all over Elric’s bracer that Venger had given Lambert. Stomping over to the back of the stables, and getting closer to what was a very faint splattered stain in the floor, he sniffed again. Definitely Elric’s scent - and the stain was dark, like human blood usually was, laced heavily with alcohol and diluted with a cheap Lyrian perfume. Similar in fact to the perfume he’d smelt on the barmaid. 

The blood was dotted in a clear trail out the stables, and the scent of the perfume was strong. Unsheathing his steel blade, Lambert easily tracked it out of the stables and down towards the north east side of the town. The local noble of the area, some count or countess, lived nearby and Lambert could see the rising roof of a luxurious townhouse towering up high above the thick stone walls. The scent and blood trail followed the walls for a little before diverging right, leading to a small wooden outhouse, possibly a lesser hunting hut or something. The stench of blood thickened dramatically. Lambert eyed the muddied ground leading to the door. There were two sets of footprints, or rather one set of heavy, large footprints, and one set of struggling, stamping smaller footprints, clearly dug into the churned mud, straining in the opposing direction. He could guess what that meant. Thirty yards from the outhouse, the second set of footprints blended into clear dragging tracks, something heavy was dragged into the little wooden hut. Sometimes, Lambert reflected bleakly, humans really were the worst monster out there. 

Lambert could smell the odour of stale alcohol, the stench of fear that acridly sunk into the wood, making it present full days later. He could see the grabbing handprints on the door, the sweat that had seeped into the wood, and the splinted smaller bloodied handprints that had gouged lines deeply into the wooden panel. He fucking hated this job sometimes. The smell of blood was overpowering. Whatever the barmaid had done to Elric, the fucker had deserved it, but still. That was a _lot_ of blood. Cautiously, Lambert swung the door open, and stepped into the darkened wooden shack.

The smell hit him like a brick wall, it was staggering. Then, as his pupils dilated and adjusted to the darkness and he took in the sight in front of him, the overpowering scent of blood, and decomposition was relegated to secondary in terms of importance. There was Elric, and he’d been ripped into pieces. The most immediately noticeable thing was that his guts were now outside of his body, but as Lambert’s eyes roved over him thoroughly, he started cataloguing some seriously concerning details. Firstly, his thigh bone was snapped. The force that was required to snap a human thigh bone was insane, and only the most dangerous of beasts could do such a thing, even witchers with their mutated strength would find it a horrifically hard task. Secondly, the man’s throat had been ripped out, with sharp curved appendages, likely fangs or teeth. And lastly, perhaps most damning of all, was the vaguely person-shaped splintered hole out the back of the wooden shack. All of this pointed to something nonhuman in origin. Something that had been hurt, and something that was horrifically dangerous. 

It was the barmaid. It had to be. She must have been _something_ that was trying to pass as human and so hadn’t wanted to use her strength openly, but to rip open a body like that she must have some serious power. Worryingly, Lambert couldn’t tell what she was yet. His mind was darting between possibilities: bruxa, siren, possibly even fae? The body was evidence of how dangerous she could be if she chose, and for most witchers that would be enough evidence to put a silver sword through her throat. But Lambert had had the dubious pleasure of spending most of his down time around Geralt monster-befriending-idiot Rivia and Eskel is-just-too-nice Kaedwen (also occasionally Eskel monster- _fucker_ , but he got a little sensitive about that, and making Eskel sad was likely kicking a puppy that just wanted to be petted), and so for him, reluctantly, the question was: was she truly defending herself, or was the poor dead bastard a thrall of some sort? Sure Elric was an evil fucker, but the question remained, was the monster who killed him one as well? 

Grumpily, Lambert was considering the question as he stomped back to the bar. The coming conversation would likely be awkward and dangerous, and probably most of the humans would see another dangerous man targeting a scared victim, still painted with the bruises from her previous assault. There was no way this would go well. He’d have to be smart about this. It wasn’t his natural state of being, but he could try - if forced.

Round the back of the tavern building was a small storage hut, it was cold, reinforced from predators, and held cured meats and cheeses - all Lambert had to do was hop over a little fence, and wait. One hour passed then another, but finally, the small bruised brunette woman with fearful eyes stepped into the garden. Upon further inspection, Lambert realised no, not a woman, a girl. 

“Lovely day isn’t it?” Lambert was aiming for polite and cheerful, but he had the unfortunate problem of a scratchy voice that no matter what he said, always sounded sarcastic and mildly threatening. This combined with swords and scars did not make him particularly reassuring. Wincing internally at her terrified, rabbit-facing-down-a-dagger expression, Lambert wished he had the forethought to leave his swords with Pierogi. He reached his hands out in front of him in a hopefully non threatening manner, but the barmaid flinched massively, and dropped the wooden tray. 

“Oh blessed Melitle,” her eyes darted wildy, “ um- yes,” she mumbled. “Nice day.” Her voice was high pitched and faint and her eyes were darting wildly. Fear blanketed the garden in its heavy stench and Lambert kept his hands up, hoping that it would calm her racing heart, in half a peace gesture and half reassurance. Her heart was thundering in her ribcage and she was breathing quickly, she resembled a cornered, injured beast. This was not going well at all. 

“I just want to talk.” He kept his voice low, calm and quiet, movements slow like he was speaking to a scared child, or an injured horse. He made sure to stay out of range of any potential fangs or teeth though. “I’ve seen Elric’s body,” at this the smell of despair heightened even more, tinged strongly with shame. Sometimes, Lambert really hated his job - she was probably a teenager. “Look, he was a bastard, I’m not saying he deserved to die _like that_ , but he definitely deserved death.” He paused, his serious cat eyes meeting her wide, wild, frightened ones, “but what I _need_ to know, as a witcher, is whether this is going to be a repeat problem - if you see my meaning?”

She was getting even more desperate, he could see her eyeing a rake discarded to her right. “I. Um-” He could hear her heart pounding, if she kept this up she was going to pass out soon from the effort. 

“Look,” Lambert was getting frustrated now. “I can’t let you go if you’re going to keep killing. He was a monster, he deserved it. But what about if the blacksmith’s boy gets a bit handsy? Or what about if the lad I saw tilling the farm calls you a whore, you gonna kill ‘em too?” He was rambling now he knew it, but he needed her to understand his position.

“No!” she almost shouted at him, horror clear in her voice. To Lambert’s immense relief she was telling to the truth. “I er-” she braced herself, visually pulling herself back together and clenching her shaking hands into fists, breathing still harsh, but slowing. She looked him straight into his inhuman eyes. “I won’t kill anyone. I won’t put myself in a situation where it becomes necessary.” All true, good. Melitele be fucking praised. “That was,” she paused, looking horrifically sickened. “It was _awful_ ,” she whispered, blinking back tears. The smell of salt water filled the little yard.

Lambert cleared his throat, shuffled a bit and blinked at the ground. “Um, yes. It er- it probably was?” He would have sacrificed his entire month’s pay to not have this conversation. 

The barmaid steeled herself further. “He was going to hurt me, and he told me he’d leave my body in the square for my brothers to find.” Fuck. Lambert’s shriveled old heart panged at this. This kid, whatever she was, had an awful experience and then had to justify her existence to a witcher. Sometimes he really hated his job. “I killed Elric to save myself.” 

Well shit. That, was a lie. Fuck. Which means, either she killed Elric for another reason. Or, perhaps more concerningly, she didn’t kill him, someone else did. And Lambert then had zero suspects and zero obvious leads. 

“Right,” he said, quickly improvising. “I’m uh, I’m going to need you to swear on a witcher’s medallion that you’ll only kill in self defence from now on kid.” he spoke briskly, hoping she wouldn’t have time to think it through. “They’re enchanted, it's a binding spell, but if you do it, I’ll leave you in peace, and tell Elric’s brother he was waylaid by bandits, okay?” 

She nodded, dizzy at the sudden change in the tone of conversation, and held her hand out to receive the medallion Lambert quickly looped over his head and handed to her. Nothing. This supposed ‘monster’ was holding enchanted silver and had no reaction. Fuck. The kid didn’t kill Elric and was covering for the person who did. Why? Why, were none of these jobs fucking easy? He yanked it out of her hands and put it on again. “This,” he growled holding the medallion, “is silver. Do you know what silver does to monsters?” He stormed over to her, getting in her space, “It burns them, _burns and blisters and melts their skin off_ ,” he practically yelled in her face, grabbing her unburnt hand and facing it upwards. Although a little red and grubby from a day’s work, it was entirely unscathed. He flung it back at her. “You didn’t kill Elric.” Lambert stated, tired, irritated and done with this conversation. “But you know who did.” He marched up to her, bristling and getting into her space, “and you’re going to tell me. Now. Or I’ll-”

“Do absolutely nothing. _Master_ witcher.” A cool, well-spoken voice, absolutely dripping with scathing disdain, cut him off. “Let. Brienna go. Put your dagger away before you accidentally hurt someone,” the voice was bitingly furious. Lambert sheathed his dagger. He hadn’t even meant to unsheath it to be honest, he was just so annoyed with the kid. She was crying, he’d done that. Fuck this day was the worst. “I will talk to you like a rational adult, with _words_ not swords, and you will receive your information, be on your way and we’ll graciously forget you threatening an _already traumatised teenager_!” The woman’s voice raised to a shout, and Lambert turned to face her. 

She had an unremarkable face, and was clearly wearing high quality clothes, with a surprising number of pockets holding all sorts of suspiciously shaped things. Clearly moneied, and likely the Lady of this area, she spoke with an aggressive forcefulness combined with the expectation of obedience, that both made Lambert utterly pissed off that she would even try to command him, but also, also a little hot under the collar. She had a distinctly motherly air about her as she gathered the girl in her arms, gave her a reassuring one armed hug and sent her back into the tavern. Lambert had absolutely no idea how old the woman was. It was easier with kids, but once they got to be vaguely adult he was shit at human ages and would have guessed anywhere between mid twenties to mid forties. But that wasn’t what drew his attention, what did was her total lack of fear-scent when eyeing the surly witcher before her. Lambert was scarred, scowling and through no fault of his own, loomingly tall and overly-muscled. He’d also just been holding a weapon. Most human women would be scared he thought, should be scared, he was scary - mentally whining, he could still intimidate people if he wanted!

“Right. Master Witcher. I _assume_ you are here about that beastly man from two nights ago,” she squinted at him condescendingly, “yes?” Lambert indicated that he was. The woman resumed talking/scolding at him. “As Brienna has likely told you, that monster dragged her at knife point to the hunting outpost at the Easternly edge of my walls. The brute was going to hurt her, badly.” At this she closed her eyes as if pained, her grief smelling genuine. “Luckily for the girl, two of her brothers work on the grounds of Eastleigh, and upon hearing their younger sister’s cry, rushed to her defence. One of boys - and I won’t tell you which even if you ask - as it turns out, is a changeling.” 

Lambert blinked. Surprise coursed through him, followed rapidly by relief. Changelings were rare. Highly territorial, and ferociously protective over people they viewed as ‘theirs’, but outside of that, they were also, generally, fairly peaceful. “A changeling? Did the family know?” At her headshake he exhaled harshly, that family was having a rough week. 

The woman continued speaking. “Brienna likely didn’t want you to hurt her brother, thinking of you a killer of nonhumans as opposed to more specifically, a killer of _monsters_.” It was a common mistake, an assumption many people made about him, and a pitfall that many inexperienced or uncaring witchers found themselves falling into. Not all nonhumans were monsters, and some humans were definitely monstrous. But a witcher that killed every nonhuman was a butcher, a true beast. “And I swear to you witcher,” the Lady drew herself up importantly, “the boy is _not_ a monster. Upon seeing what his hands did to that man, he has spent the last two days locked in one of my rooms terrified that he’d hurt someone. He’s been inconsolable.” Her heartbeat, although surprisingly slow for a human, was steady. Her breathing hadn’t changed, nor had her scent - she was telling the truth. 

“Alright. Thanks, I guess.” Lambert muttered. “And um, sorry for. That. With uh- Brienna.” He stumbled over his apology awkwardly. He was very unused to apologising and it felt a lot like ants crawling over his skin. The noble woman took his arm unflinchingly and escorted him round the outside of the tavern out into the street, towards the stables. She certainly was something, all fearless, striding power and forcefulness wrapped up in quite a small package. 

“So, how are you liking Larasgate?” Lambert stared at the woman incredulously. She was making small talk. With a witcher! He swore there was something fundamentally not right with this town. Then his mind started wandering, factoring in the changeling boy. Normally parents identified their child’s ‘otherness’ immediately, maybe growing up around an oddity like him had dulled them to it somehow? It was definitely worth considering. Mind drifting, Lambert didn’t notice the noble woman eyeing him expectantly and, when faced with his baffled bewilderment, when he noticed the polite attempts at small talk being thrusted vaguely in his direction, she promptly took the reigns of the conversation and started delivering him a history of the place that he could happily tune out and continue his speculation. 

They were at the stables. It couldn’t have come soon enough. Singing to himself that god-awful witcher coin song that Geralt’s idiot bard wrote a couple of years ago, the stable boy was brushing Pierogi’s coat. Pierogi, the spoilt brat was delighted, and kept trying to eat the boy’s hair. Lambert and the woman paused, just out of earshot of the stables, the noblewoman turning her piercing, intense gaze on Lambert, staring intently. The feeling was a bit like he was being dissected in front of her - it was intense and uncomfortable. “Now that you know the truth of the situation, I trust you are satisfied, master witcher.” It was less of a question, and more of a statement, very different from the polite chatter of the previous minutes. “I hope, you have no cause to return.” Her eyes were hard, arms crossed, her tone uncompromising. She was clearly willing to fight him, he had no doubt. Lambert suppressed the instinct to call her every curse word he knew and then a few more in other languages, a reflexive response to anyone telling him what to do, and bit down the abuse that he wanted to let fly. He was in the wrong. It sucked but it was true. He’d scared and threatened a kid who was already terrified, she’d been trying to protect her brother from the big bad witcher, and he, Lambert, had been the villain in this story. 

Thinking about what to say, whether there was anything Lambert could say to make this whole situation any better, Lambert let his eyes drift to the stable boy who was still puttering around Lambert’s cool new horse with its stupidass name. He was a tall slim lad, Lambert had absolutely no idea how old he was, probably older than ten and less than twenty. He squinted at the boy, whilst ruminating on how weird it was to think of humans aging so quickly when he still looked pretty much the same as he did a few hundred years ago, when he noticed something, and then the word seemed to slide and filter into slow motion.

Low on the boy's neck, almost hidden by his shirt collar, was a bite mark. It was a particular kind of bite mark that Lambert had only ever seen in books in the library at Kaer Morhen. It had an odd bruising pattern, and four very clear, very deep teeth marks. It was the bite of a vampire. Specifically, the non-lethal bite a vampire could, but rarely did, use in order to feed, _but not kill_. Lambert whipped out his sword and span round glancing frantically around the village. The noble woman leapt out the way, arms waving furiously, shouting loudly, but he paid her no heed. Either the brother wasn’t a changeling, he was a vampire - or this was a particularly unlucky village. Then he noticed something else. The noblewoman, the woman he’d just spent over five minutes conversing with, didn’t have a shadow. Glancing up at her eyes, he noticed how bloodshot they were, and how pale she was. He looked at her hands, subtly pointed nails. Realisation crashed over him like a wave trying to capsize a small bit. She was the vampire. She must have bitten the stable kid. She was who everyone was protecting. She’d probably saved Brienna. She was the monster who had ripped Elric to pieces. And she’d lied to his face. The sword twitched to her throat, moving so quickly that to the humans it must have looked like a blur. “Vampire,” Lambert snarled at her. The stable boy dropped his brush with a clatter. 

She was breathing quickly, likely a habit she’d picked up from humans as she absolutely didn’t need to bleed. Where the silver coated blade was lightly touching the exposed skin of her throat, a red rashy burn mark was being raised. It wasn’t the awful silver burns he’d seen on vampires before, but it was proof that he was right. “Now, calm down master witcher.” Her voice shook, she was afraid, she was right to be so. 

“Calm down? Your teeth marks are on that boy’s neck. How _many more_ of the children have got your fucking bitemarks bloodsucker?” Lambert roared at her. The volume was intentional. He was making a scene on purpose. He knew he was unprepared. He’d been in the saddle for two weeks, no vampire oil on his blade, he’d taken no potions - there was a chance he might not win. But maybe if enough people saw what she was, she couldn’t trick them again, couldn’t go after their kids again. It was a desperate plan born of hope, not any real strategy, and people did come running out of the tavern and some of the nearby houses. 

“You burn at silver, you have no shadow. The kids here are _bitten_ ,” There was the sound of gasping, someone dropped a metal tankard in shock, multiple people started talking loudly. Good.

The vampire stood, neck outstretched, throat bobbing against the metal blade leaving a spreading patch of red raw-looking skin where the silver had brushed her neck. “Please, I-,” But before Lambert could fire back a scathing retort, the stable boy, armed with a muck-covered rake rushed at him. What the fuck? Humans run away from the vampires, not towards them. But before Lambert could kick out the idiot boy’s knee caps, and yell at him for picking a weapon he could barely lift, the vampire whipped out an arm and practically clotheslined the kid, forcing him behind her. What. The. Fuck? Lambert flicked his eyes heavenward. Nothing on this Melitele-be-damned contract was going normally. “Jack,” the vampire snarled, not taking her eyes off Lambert. “Get into the tavern.” The boy started vehemently protesting, shouting, but the vampire would not be moved. “Get. inside.” She ground out, shifting her weight in order to block the kid better. The kid gave her a worried panicked look and grabbed her wrist. She shook him off. Her voice was soft but serious, "Just go inside Jack." She glanced at the witcher, begging him to stay silent with her eyes, “I’ll be _fine_ ,” she lied. He could taste the lie, it was so strong.

“Yeah kid, get in the tavern. Get where it’s safe.” Lambert grunted. Not taking his eyes off the panicked vampire in front of him. A panicked beast was the most dangerous kind of course. The boy hesitated, clearly torn, but eventually the need to follow instructions or perhaps some scrap of common sense won out. 

“If I let you kill me, will you leave here, no matter what they do to you, witcher?” The vampire asked, a strange, almost sad look in her eyes. “They’ll hate you for this. But. Please. Let them live.” She was begging, begging for the lives of the humans she had feasted on. Lambert shook off the uncomfortable feeling. She _was_ a monster. He knew vampires, he had seen the marks she was leaving.

It was probably a trick, or perhaps a little like an old woman loving a pet cat. He ignored her wet eyes and mournful scent. It was a trick he repeated to himself. He knew vampires were all heartless bastards, he knew they killed and preyed on humans, that all of them thought humans were cattle, and none of them could be allowed to survive. Despite the vampire’s entreaty, he knew she’d fight back, likely ferociously, with a viciousness he’d be hard pressed to match in his current state. “Yeah. Alright, Lady,” he snorted, “you just stand there and let me kill you, and I’ll leave this fucking town.” He said it with a half smirk, knowing his sarcasm was biting. 

Twitching a little at the shakey swallowing of the vampire's throat Lambert looked past his sword examined his soon-to-be-foe. Clearly not a garhkain or any kind of fleder, he concluded that she must be a bruxa. But she had none of the obvious bruxa traits, none of the flighty, magpie-like hoarding of shiny things behaviour, the conversation earlier had been sensible, educated. It was maddening. And the reaction of the village was astounding. Clearly she was well-established, had been here a while. How, Lambert had no idea - people must be going missing at a concerning rate but there were no missing person notices, no contracts for a witcher. Grimly, he wondered whether they knew and allowed it in return for something. The vampire might have been infecting the town for years, growing like a parasite or a weed as it drained it’s host.

She opened her mouth to speak again. Lambert eyed her blunt human teeth with marked suspicion. Maybe she had a glamour charm? Maybe she'd filed them down? He was so preoccupied with his churning speculation that he didn't hear the twang of the bow string until it was too late.

Staggering backwards, sword dropping, burning heat leached through Lambert's torso, sapping his strength. Like a wave, the pain hit. The barbed arrow was protruding from his stomach. Every breath was a new agony as it jostled the barbed tip, tearing a little be more each time into his soft flesh. The vampire stared in horror before half turning in the direction the arrow had originated. Staring off into the distance at something only she could see, she swore softly and said, “Men. Approaching from the west, armed.”

Then she swore louder, before starting to yell loudly, projecting her loud voice at the gathered villagers. "Raid! Bandits! Get everyone inside - barricade the doors!" Despite the scene, her aura of command was irrefutable and the villagers quickly followed her orders. The frantic, rushing crush of people was manic, shutters being drawn, doors being barred, shrieking and shouting. 

Looking at Lambert hunched double in pain, the vampire drew herself up, squared her shoulders, and pushed the now-limp sword away from herself. The silver burned her hands but she ignored it, eyeing the Witcher seriously. "Witcher. We can resolve our quarrel later. They'll burn the village, kill everyone, even the _children_." she spoke firmly, emphasising her concern. Emphatically, she declared, "I _will not_ let that happen. I can’t let that happen witcher. Please, help me?"

Lambert eyed her with naked suspicion. This was almost definitely a trap. But, on the plus side he was already likely mortally wounded,, so what harm was a little trap? He glanced at her, then the villagers, before turning back to the direction of the advancing horses. Fuck it. He sighed resignedly and slumped a little. "Fuck. Yeah okay, I'll help,” he hissed reluctantly. “But _vampire_. You and me. We ain't done, you hear?" 

She nodded seriously and offered him a tentative smile before glancing down at the arrow shaft protruding from his stomach. "Should I pull it out?" She offered, eyeing the arrow dubiously. 

"No!" Lambert yelled, forcing the word out. "Fuck no - you'll rip me to pieces, It's barbed." He braced himself, knowing the next few moments would be agony, and snapped the shaft off. Blinking at the pain, and forcing the urge to faint back back down his throat. Bracing himself, he prepared to greet the bandits storming into the mouth of the village. Angling himself towards them as much as possible, and palming one of the daggers concealed on the inner part of his upper arm, he swore furiously as he recognised one of the men. 

Nine heavily armed bandits strode into the edge of the town. They walked with the sickening swagger of men who knew they were powerful and terrifying, and enjoyed the power and terror that they wrought. Venger was leading them with a ropey grin stretched across his gnarled face. 

“Well, well, what have we here _mutant_?” Venger’s grin was a twisted thing, and his wink at one of the girls cowering in her window was even worse. “Because,” he declared loudly, spinning on the spot before rounding on Lambert and getting within striking distance of him, “I dont see _my fucking brother_ anywhere. Where is he?” he snarled, spewing spittle as he yelled at the people gathered in their houses and cowering in their gardens. He lifted his sword and swung it wildly. “I know he came here, you pricks.” The men around him all slowly, menacingly started unsheathing their weapons, thrumming with clearly palpable excitement at the rising tension. 

Lambert breathed through the throbbing pain. There were nine of them and at least one archer concealed somewhere as none of them had bows. It was just him and one probably untrustworthy vampire. If he survived, he’d deal with her - but that was future Lambert’s problem. Present Lambert just needed to survive the humans. 

Venger was still posturing and threatening, ridiculously confident. The women in the window of the house closest to him were openly sobbing at his words. This asshole, was gonna get _hurt_. Venger, cackling, made to grab at one of the young lads in the garden to the left of the tavern. He lunged, sweaty, meaty arm outstretched, when he abruptly staggered backwards a step. Blood bubbled out past the knife embedded in his throat, and Lambert grinned viciously, ignoring the pain of jostling the arrowhead that was tearing up his innards. “Fucking _shut up_ , dickhead,” he grinned wickedly at the shocked bandits before lunging wildly with his sword. His silver one was already to hand and he guessed that made sense, because these fuckers were definitely monsters.

Springing forward with his silver blade, Lambert carved out a path of bloody fury through the gathered bandits. They were heavily armed but poorly armoured - to their absolute detriment. Some of them tried to reach for their weapons to little avail. Two tried for some of the townsfolk, and one actually managed to set one of the houses on fire, but he was quickly cut down. Lambert lunged and swiped and swirled, sword whipping around and tearing through flesh. Although not altogether entirely lucid - due to a combination of onset shock and blood loss - Lambert began to notice that there were less men than there should be, although injuring many, he’d only finished off two of the men, and yet there were only four still standing, then suddenly three. 

Turning, as he parried one of the two remaining bandits, Lambert glanced up to see the vampire standing next to him. She was still wearing her noblewoman outfit, but she was splattered in gore - none would think her noble now. Fangs bared and snarling out a ragged sound, she flung out her serrated claws, curved through the air and slashed down on the only remaining bandit still standing- all pretences of humanity had quickly been discarded by the Lady. As he was watching, she flung out her slim arm again and tore into the man’s throat, sending blood and viscera flying out in a macabre semi-circle. Then there was a thud, and a burn. The word seemed to swim and slide and slip away from him. Feeling like he was made of sand, Lambert slumped to the ground, feeling the warm wetness spreading from the second arrow he’d just been shot with. The vampire sprang at him, eyes worried, hands raised. Her claws were gone now. She was saying... something, but it was like she was speaking through water. He blinked at her, grinned, gave her his best wink before finally slurring, “I’m definitely haunting all you fuckers.” The creeping darkness that had been lingering on the edges of his vision surged forwards, and everything went black. 

***

The first thing Lambert registered as he regretfully clawed his way back into consciousness was that his sword and armour were missing. The familiar weight was conspicuously absent and he was immediately alert and tensed, prepared for attack. Someone had removed them while he was asleep. Then, as the memory of the female vampire came back to him, he swore internally and really started to panic. He could be anywhere, the vampire could be anywhere - he was probably at her mercy right now. He had held her at silver-knifepoint afterall, vampires didn’t tend to forgive things like that. Extending his senses whilst trying not to move and reveal that he was awake, he took in a deep breath trying to ascertain more about his surroundings. 

The first and most pungent aroma was himself, and his blood. It was a scent Lambert was deeply familiar with and he easily dismissed it. Inhaling more he registered a wide variety of herbs, mushrooms and a couple more rare ingredients that actually surprised him. Harpy bile, Griffin claws, Shaelmaar tongues etc. He must be in a healer's house - that was a pleasant surprise. He could smell a nearby farm and he could hear quite a few nearby heartbeats, that faded into the background as he focused on the babbling chatter of peasants going about their day. Listening intently, he was about to open his eyes when the patter of multiple footsteps began getting louder as they drew closer to the structure he was in. Accompanying the footsteps was the voice of the young stable hand, Jack. 

"So," he was serious, clearly concentrating. Lambert imagined he'd be frowning. "I need to go check his temperature, change his wound rags, reapply the poultice and then rebandage him," he paused after finishing his list. "Is that everything?" he asked anxiously, he was hesitant, clearly unconfident .

"That's everything. Very well done Jack," the voice of the vampire was light and warm, Lambert felt his muscles lock into place, and forcibly relaxed them. "We'll make a healer of you yet boy," the vampire cajoled him gently. The door swung open, and Lambert could hear the heartbeat of the boy drawing closer. It was quicker than normal for a human, he was breathing quicker too. Forcing himself to stay relaxed, he felt the cool tentative hands begin to press against his chest. There was a burning flare of heat where he pressed down, and only Lambert’s iron-will stopped him flinching away as the boy unwrapped his chest. The vampire was still talking. "No, a little lower, there. Yes, exactly. Now can you see the swelling here? Mm hmm. Apply the poultice into the would and then this tincture to the inflamed area. What does inflammation suggest?"

She sounded, honestly, like a professor. And then, doing an impression of a dutiful student, the boy hesitantly responded, "um redness indicates the body trying to heal but persistent redness suggests infection?" His voice trailed off highly at the end. He was evidently receiving good training. He'd be an exceptional healer Lambert was sure, but for the life of him he couldn't work out why. What was this vampire's angle? What was she doing? Whatever could be the point of teaching her food to heal, of all things? 

The vampire was beginning to respond when the door clattered open again. Now footsteps pattered in, although significantly lighter this time. "Lillo!" Jack half-shouted, in a stern tone. "You aren't allowed to be here." There was a low sound that sounded a little like a shove, followed by a low thump.

"Jack," the voice high pitched, young and whining. "I want to see the Witchman!" Lambert tensed up, visibly this time - he couldn’t help it. There were now two kids in the room with the vampire. Jack stomped off to where the child was audibly having a tantrum, and Lambert allowed his hand to drift over to the concealed dagger on his thigh. The vampiress put down whatever she had been holding and drifted closer to him.

Speaking in a tone low enough that the children were guaranteed not to hear, she hissed, "Witcher. If you are idiotic enough to pull out your blades while there are children in the room with you, _I will tear off your fucking arms_ for endangering them." She was furious, the scent piercing and sharp. Lambert opened his yellow eyes and glared up at her dark, bloodshot ones. Almost imperceptibly, he twitched his head in the tiniest of nods, and then indicated towards the door. Speaking at a volume humans could hear, she turned her back on Lambert. And wasn't that an insult of its own. "Lillo, it's lovely to see you my dear, but this man is very injured and now's just not a good time, Jack can you take her back to Eastleigh house, and keep her entertained for an hour?" She bustled them out the door quickly before shouting it and leaning on it with her eyes closed.

“So,” Lambert bit out, “I guess you’ve got me right where you want me. Bloodsucker.” He spat the word bloodsucker like it the vilest of curse words.

The vampire gave a sharp exhale, before saying wryly, “No, actually I don’t, witcher.” 

There was something slightly morose about her tight tone that threw Lambert for a moment. He eyed her dubiously. “Right. Yeah. Of course, you aren’t going to kill me now that I’m injured and I can’t actually beat you in a fight.”

She snorted. “You wish witcher, even if you were healed up and dosed on your dodgy potions you wouldn’t stand a chance,” her mouth quirked up in a smile. “Not, not that it matters - I don’t actually want you dead, you know.”

“Well ain’t that nice.” Lambert drawled, “can’t say it’s mutual though bloodsucker.”

She flinched. “I- I know what it looks like, but I’m not hurting them-”

“Oh,” said Lambert, his voice coloured with vicious mock surprise, “So you’re a fucking vegetarian, are you? shoulda said _bloodsucker_.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, _witcher_. The blood. It’s freely given.” She exhaled forcefully. “We have a… We have an agreement. Between me and the village. I protect them, keep them safe from bandits and the like, you know, the actual job of a countess, and they pay tax. It’s just… It’s just they can choose how to pay it. Money, food or… Or blood.”

“Right. Of course. You’re a _nice_ vampire.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“Fuck you.” She looked like she was forcibly restraining herself from slapping him. “I didn’t choose to be _this_ , but I can choose what I do with it. I haven’t killed a human for food in over a century, asshole.”

“Oooh Vamp’s got teeth,” At her enraged snarl he held his hands up placatingly, pleased with the reaction his pun had received. There was a long drawn out, considering pause whilst Lambert turned over the information he’d just been given. It flew in the face of everything he knew about vampires, but it rang of truth. And he wasn’t a complete idiot after all. She’d protected Brienna, the townsfolk, him, healed him, protected Jack and Lillo and seemed to be educating them. Then, additionally, she seemed sincere when speaking to him, genuinely worried for his health, and if she was telling the truth regarding her method of feeding, it shouldn’t automatically warrant her death. That would be species-ist, he couldn’t condemn her for feeding and there wasn’t even a contract on her. She seemed, if not harmless, benevolent at least. The problem was that if he was wrong, if he made the wrong judgement here, this village would pay for his misstep in flesh and blood. 

Giving himself more time to consider, he said, "earlier, when I had you at sword point, you were ready to die to keep them safe, weren't you?" Lambert watched her nod uncertainly. "Why? I've never met a bruxa like you? Why would you risk that for some humans?" he pressed, voice laden heavily with skepticism.

"A bruxa? I'm- I'm not a bruxa." Her eyes were wide with surprise, her mouth curling in a small entertained smile as a surprised laugh escaped

"Wait- what?" Lambert was utterly thrown. He knew she was a female vampire, and there was absolutely no way she was an alp.

"Call yourself a Witcher? Lambert of Aedirn you should be ashamed." Then the teasing smile slipped off her face again as she remembered the situation they were in. A witcher and a vampire. Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal she expected to lash out at any moment, she drew closer. Setting about fixing Jack's mildly sloppy bandages, she opened her mouth to speak, frowned and closed it again. Looking down at then rather than at Lambert, she sighed heavily. "No master witcher. I'm not a bruxa, although it would be far simpler if I was." She was fidgety, twitching her fingers, she glanced dartingly at him before muttering, "I'm a… well I’m a higher vampire."

Lambert gave a sharp intake of breath in utter disbelief, moved to sit upright but -suffered instant regret as his torso throbbed and pulsed in lancing pain. "Lady. You're either delusional or a liar. There's no way you're a higher-fucking-vamp. They're practically extinct and don't get involved with humans, 'specially not kids," Lambert grunted, trying to breathe through the pain lancing through his body. Fussily she padded out some cushions behind him to take his weight as he was propped upright by her cool pale hands.

“Right, better? Don’t throw yourself about so much,” she muttered. Then, in response to his obvious doubt as to her vampic status she gave him a toothy grin, rolled her eyes again and then seemed to blur. Her edges became indistinct, darker almost. Her nails grew into talons extended threateningly. Her teeth pushed out until she had a maw of dripping fangs. She became paler, her face becoming more scrunched and beastial-looking. She looked frighteningly feral and utterly dangerous. 

"I think," she rasped through interlocking fangs, "that I am rather more familiar with my own species than you are, master Witcher," she sniped at him mulishly, sarcastic words feeling rather out of place in her demonic face.

Lambert blinked owlishly. "Fuck. Okay,” he breathed. You're a higher vampire," then he giggled hysterically. "I threatened a higher vampire." Muttering quietly, he mumbled something about how he wasn't Geralt and didn't appreciate this kind of bullshit. The vampire seemed to be manfully restraining herself from _another_ eye roll.

"You can call me by my name you know," the higher vampire said reproachfully as she seamlessly shifted back into her human form. "You won't stop being a witcher if you're polite to a monster you know," she added almost snidely. There was something hilarious and endearing about an insanely powerful being of terror pouting like a child. 

Lambert said bluntly, "I can't call you by your name." At her really quite sad sigh he stumbled over his words trying to explain himself, "no, no! I meant 'cause I don't know it." 

"Oh, of course. My apologies." She flushed pinkly, and sounded slightly embarrassed. "I'm Lady Evelyn Decarte, countess of Eastleigh." Twitching like she was about to offer him her hand, but then thought better of it, the countess gave an awkward wave. "It's- nice to meet you? When you aren't threatening the village kids, or holding swords to my throat..." she hesitated, "you are actually quite pleasant." 

Lambert snorted at her. "Don’t lie, Lady Evelyn, it's bad form for a noble.” He gave her a smirk before adding, “I'm a grumpy asshole, but," his face changed with mercurial speed as he regarded her seriously, "I do my job vampire, and I do it well." 

At her raised eyebrow and confused expression Lambert pressed onwards. "I don't get by letting monsters get off scot-free, and I've seen you kill a whole bunch of humans while I was here, but," he held his hand up to forestall her protests, "it was all in defence of other humans which does change things.” She exalted with obvious relief. “I still don't trust you though. Not at all. Don't take it personally, I don't trust anyone, not even my family. Although that might be because one father figure sold me while the other experimented on me with lethal chemicals when I was a child," Lambert cheerfully rattled on in the face of the vampire's look of undisguised horror and pity. 

“They did what?” Her voice was quiet but clearly alarmed. “To a child? Thats-”

"Awful, abysmal and disgusting? Yes. That’s the witcher order for you, may they burn with Lilit for all eternity.” Lambert spoke quickly and dismissively. “ _Anyway_ , I am gonna heal, and I'm gonna watch." He stared at her intently. “I'm going to watch closely, and if I think you are a threat, I won't hesitate to kill you, even if it means I have to learn a whole different kind of fighting to take on a higher bloodsucker." 

She looked thoroughly irritated, but before she could even think about responding, the door creaked. Both of them whipped their heads round at the noise, tense and raring for a fight. Evelyn settled first. She sighed, “You can come in now Jack.” The recaltruent boy trudged into the hut sheepishly, holding his younger sister’s hand in his. “As lovely as it is to see you my dears, I’m fairly certain I told you both to go up to the house.” Jack ducked his head slightly shamed, whilst Lillo was unreservedly staring at Lambert in an entirely creepy way that is really only managed by small enthusiastic children. Lambert who was very much not used to young small things, blinked at her and gave her a fierce scowl in effort to frighten the child, only for her to giggle uproariously, yank her hand free from her brother and stomp over to his bedside. 

Jack bit his lip, “I know you asked us to go Milady, and I am sorry,”

Evelyn the vampire raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. “Well then. Why did you stay? It might have been dangerous,” she added warningly chiding him.

He looked a little embarrassed. “I, um, wanted to keep you safe,” he mumbled into the floor. 

She couldn’t help but look a little charmed at this young, fragile human attempting to protect her. “That’s very sweet dear, but I don’t need protection.” Gently she added, “I can keep myself quite safe. Thank you though.” 

Jack protested loudly, “but you don’t keep yourself safe milady! You let him hold a sword at you yesterday!”

Lillo, who was ignoring the conversation entirely, offered Lambert a slightly grubby hand, which when he didn’t take, she rubbed it on his stubbled face. Lambert gave her what Geralt and Eskel had privately dubbed his ‘wet cat look’, which Lillo promptly ignored. Then the small human started speaking. “I’m Lillo. My real name is Elilda, but don’t call me that it’s a stupid name, and only my grandma calls me that - an’ Jack when he’s being mean.” Lambert blinked again. At his lack of response Lillo poked him in the shoulder. “You’re sposed to tell me your name now witchman.” 

Lambert, looking for a rescue glanced over at the vampire who seemed to be enjoying his torture at the hands of a small blond menace. “Uh. I’m Lambert?” 

“LAMBER! Nice to meet you. Are you really a witchman? I thought all witches were ladies. Do you really fight monsters - have you seen a dragon? Lillo fired the questions at Lambert, bouncing with excitement. Lambert quailed in the face of her uproarious enthusiasm. What followed was less of a conversation and more of an interview, but very quickly Lambert was roped into telling tales of his adventures, whilst the vampire and her pupil continued to putter about the healer’s hut, mixing salves, poultices and potions.

“Right. So after I beheaded the manticore, the wyvern dived at me, right at me, mouth open, teeth the size of a warg's head. So I shove the sword right up into it’s belly as it dived at me yeah? So it just split open, right on top of me! All the insides and goop and blood just fucking landed on me, and I didn’t really give a shit, because I didn’t realise they were acid. Worked it out pretty bloody quickly when my skin started falling off though - so uh yeah. That’s how I got this fucker of a scar.” 

Jack and Lillo, who were both sitting on wooden stools next to Lambert’s bed, had eyes the size of dinner plates as they stared at the ugly melted looking scar on Lambert's exposed shoulder. Lillo, who wasn’t very good at following ‘don’t touch,’ and even less good at following ‘stay quiet, poked Lambert's scar with a small chubby finger before turning to Lady Evelyn who was looking a little ill. 

“Lady Evie.” She pronounced the words politely and clearly, a question clear in her tone

“Yes Lillo,” she gave a weak smile. 

“What’s a fucker?”

At Lambert’s guilty expression of immediate regret , Lillo’s innocent curiosity, and Lady Evelyn’s utterly mortified flush Jack laughed so hard he cried. Falling on his chair, giggling uproariously, he fell off his stall, his cackles echoing through the thin walls of the hut, and could be heard half-way down the village.

**Author's Note:**

> So there is some discussion of abuse that a teenaged bartender suffered at the hands of the man who died. This happened before the plot, and although he was planning on sexually assaulting her he was killed before it happened. All of this happened before the story, but this is a just in case situation. Enjoy! x


End file.
